


There Are Enough Ballrooms in You.

by Erica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Dom/sub, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Praise Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Sub Dean, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erica/pseuds/Erica
Summary: Dean Winchester is a 29 year old, single man. Brother to Sam, a final year student at Stanford, and uncle to a spitfire 4 year old named Meg. With Sam on the home stretch to becoming a fully-fledged lawyer and finally achieving everything Dean has sacrificed himself for, Dean is on the cusp of gaining control of his own life once more. Except, Dean has no idea what he is supposed to do with a life of his own.Ever since his mom died when he was 4 and his dad became a (less than) functioning alcoholic by the time he was 6, Dean had dedicated himself to being anything that kid needed him to be: Mom, Dad, Provider of food and shelter and means of getting into college. And when Sam got his girlfriend, Jess, pregnant he became the young parents’ entire support system. Then when Jess died in their final year of pre-law/med, Dean took up the role of main child carer and pseudo-parent, dragging his heartbroken brother all the way through his grief and right into law school.Dean never begrudged it- not really. He liked being needed, being wanted. But now with Meg starting school and Sam finishing, Dean didn't feel like he was gaining a life, he felt like he was losing it.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Benny Lafitte/Samandriel, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is the first thing I have written in... forever. But after reading I'll be Good, by LittleAngelCassie, I was inspired by her beautiful dom/sub love story (complete with cute family set ups) to write something of my own. Plus, I think most of us can probably agree that we have suddenly found ourselves with a lot more time on our hands than we were expecting. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy. I'm aiming to have another chapter out by Sunday so the wait shouldn't be too long.
> 
> If you like it, feel free to give a comment or a kudos. It's always fun hearing some feedback.
> 
> Fair warning, this is not beta'd so apologies for any mistakes, they are completely my own.

It wasn't often that Dean didn't start his day being jolted into rapid consciousness. Usually he was spurred into action by the jarring noise of his alarm or a loving (yet stinging) slap to the face by a tiny four-year-old hand.

So, Dean was disorientated when the world began to arrive to him in sluggish sections.

First, he noticed the soft light that caressed itself across his eyelids, white and serene. Then he noted the way his legs felt weighed down by the duvet that lay across them, felt how the cotton covering scratched lightly against his leg, the way his body sunk into the box-spring mattress where it sagged in the middle.

There was a breeze coming from the slight wear in the seal of the balcony door. It was nice. But it did nothing to dispel the dry summer heat of California. In fact, Dean could feel as a bead of sweat travelled from the nape of his neck quickly down the curve of his spine, beneath his t-shirt, until it rested in the dip of his lower back. The sensation was enough to get his body to give an involuntary shudder, and push his mind that much further into the world around him.

That was when he heard it. The thing that must have started this whole process of waking: whispers.

_“Meg, we have to keep really quiet so Dee can sleep. We can wake him up after breakfast.”_

_“But Dee loooovvvees breakfast.”_ Meg whined.

_“I know, baby. But he doesn’t necessarily love it at 8:30 on his day off.”_

Oh, so it’s that early.

Dean groaned quietly and buried his face in tighter to the pillow. Sam was right. Dean _didn’t_ love the idea of getting up at 8:30 on his day off. Plus, he had only arrived home at 5:20 and sure, he had fallen asleep the second his head hit the pillow at 5:26 but that didn’t mean he was ready to start his day just three hours later. Nuh uh. Dean wasn’t joining humanity until at _least_ 12:30.

_“But you’re not going to make it right.”_

_“Meg, sweetheart, it’s fruit loops. I can’t make it wrong.”_

Meg sighs, sounding incredibly put-upon by Sam’s obvious false confidence in fruit loop making, _“Daddy, I don’t know what to tell you. You make it weird. The cereal is all hard for forever.”_

_“Meg, I don’t even know what you mean by that. It’s cereal, it’s hard until it soaks in the milk.”_

_“And see, the fact that you don’t know what I mean, that’s our problem Daddy.”_

Dean hears the snort of laughter that escapes him at his nieces resigned tone.

_“…Did you hear that?”_

Shit. Dean felt as his body locked his muscles tight in an attempt not to create any further sound.

But it was too late, his little demon princess had heard him.

_“I think Dee is awake.”_

_“Meg, no—”_

Sam’s whispered protests were drowned out by the dense sound of little feet hitting wooden floors and making a beeline straight for Dean’s room.

“Dee, are you awake?”

Dean kept still, hoping that the little girl might take his silence as evidence of a slumbering Dee. Prompt her into returning to her frustrated Dad.

He should have known better.

He listened carefully to flat footed steps making there way across the small patch of wooden flooring at the entrance to his room. The noise dampening as they transferred onto the thick woven rug by his bed.

“Dee?”

She was right next to him now, whispering in his ear. Her breath coming out wet and noisily in a way that only a child’s could.

He felt as a tiny hand cupped itself around the shell of his ear. Then there was a brush of semi-sticky lips.

( _Ew. How was the kid already sticky? Why are all kids always sticky in some way? Do they produce the stuff?)_

Dean tried to brace himself for the noise. Prepared his body to stay stock still. But there was no winning when Meg’s voice caused his eardrum to tingle under such a closely whispered word, “ _Dee?”_

His body shook. Shivered against the tickling air. And he knew the jig was up.

Dean made a somewhat inquisitive humming noise and twisted his torso to the side, pushing his arms above his head and pulling himself fully into awareness.

When he finally lifted his lids, he was confronted with a set of wide, slightly upside down given the angle, brown eyes staring back at him.

“Mornin’, Bub.”

She blinked, eyelashes brushing gently across Dean’s own. When her eyes reopened, they pushed up gently at the sides with a smile.

“Morning, Dee.” The little girl was still whispering. As if their small morning exchange was a treasured secret between the two.

Dean’s heart swelled with the thought.

He whispered back just as softly, “Now, why don’t you go tell Daddy to leave the cereal to me? He can man the coffee pot and orange juice carton.”

Meg gasped, “I knew you were awake.”

“You were right. Now, git. Let me get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

And like that, the gentle morning was shattered as Meg sprung into action. The little demon ran from Dean’s room back toward the kitchen, yelling about how she was right and Dee _was_ awake and was going to make the cereal properly.

Dean chuckled to himself. He took a second more in bed, bowing his back into the mattress below him. God, he was sore. Saturday’s fucking sucked. They always left him aching in a way that seemed to reach down into his bones. And that was _without_ him being used for a demonstration in Purgatory like he had last night.

He didn’t exactly _love_ having his submission utilised as a form of entertainment for the bored and mildly curious. Dean knew some of the other subs he worked with at the club could separate the demonstrations from play. Could hold themselves back from the edge of falling completely into ‘space. Hell, some of them relished in the attention they gained from that main stage audience. But Dean had never been able to keep himself from slipping below the surface of his conscious thought when he played— Demonstration or not.

Dean always threw himself fully into the euphoric freedom he found in submitting to another person. He couldn’t keep himself from giving everything he had to the person holding the reigns, in hopes that they would steer him toward the calm he could never find on his own.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He always found it. Benny, Dean’s demo partner, was an amazing dom. He just wasn’t _Dean’s_ dom. And the moment they shared never got to be _theirs,_ not when there were so many eyes intruding on what Dean wished was a private act.

And no matter how many sweet praises Benny might whisper into Dean’s ear during aftercare, or how tightly he held onto Dean’s trembling form, by the time morning rolled around and Dean woke up alone, they had disappeared completely from memory.

If it were up to him, he’d never do it.

But, that’s not how Dean’s life works. Those demonstrations come with a pretty hefty bonus in his paycheque every month. And with a brother in law school and a four-year-old niece depending on him to provide for them? He wasn’t exactly in the position to turn it down.

“Dee hurry up! Daddy is eyeing the fruit loops like he’s getting ideas!”

“Meg what have I said about yelling?” Sam chastised, loudly. Some might argue in a yell.

Yeah, this was more like how Dean’s mornings tended to start.

***

When Dean emerged from behind the wooden divider, which acted as a wall between his ‘room’ and the living area, he was dressed in loose grey sweats and a well-worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

The thing had definitely seen better days.

It was a faded black, with small spots bleached from errand cleaning chemicals. The neckline was littered with holes. And despite Sam’s bitching about how gross the thing was, Dean loved it. The cotton was stretched and soft, and just the right amount of oversized on the torso, but fitted across the shoulders.

It had been the first new thing Dean had allowed himself to buy. The one and only selfish purchase he had made in the brief time his money stretched further than the necessities.

Before this t-shirt, Dean had only ever indulged in the bargain rails at his local thrift store in Lawrence, and later Sunnyvale, where he could find clothes for $5 and under. They were rarely ever Dean’s personal taste, or size, but he could cover most of the weirder designs with a flannel shirt, or his Dad’s leather jacket, and he could always hold up over-sized work pants or jeans with a good belt.

Okay, they were never anything you’d find plastered on the front of a fashion magazine, but Dean had been told on numerous occasions that his pretty face was more than enough to make up for any questionable style faux-pas.

So, yeah, the t-shirt might be ratty and old, but it was also the only thing in Dean’s possession that had only ever belonged to him. He refused to give it up. No matter how many bitchfaces were thrown his way.

“Mornin’, Sammy.” Dean greeted, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Morning.” Sam replied, “Sorry about Meg. I tried to keep her from waking you but clearly…” Sam gestured his hand in a movement of abject failure.

Dean waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. I heard you were about to subject Bub here to hard cereal. Couldn’t let that happen, could I?” Dean winked in Meg’s direction. The little girl returned the gesture with a giggle.

“Yeah, well apparently ‘only Dee’ can make cereal worth consuming.” Sam grumbled.

Dean thought it was cute that his brother was so put out by the culinary criticism of a four-year-old. Last week, Dean had had to pull half a masticated crayon from his niece’s mouth. Johnathan Gold, she ain’t.

“What can I say? Someone has to be the culinary genius in the family and someone has to have all the good looks.”

Sam smiled.

“Unfortunately for you—I got both.”

“Oh fu- fudge you, Dean.” Sam replied, his gaze quickly cutting to Meg to see if she caught the almost slip up.

Judging by the raised brow and slightly unimpressed look, she had.

God, in moments like this Meg looked _exactly_ like Sam. She may have taken all her good looks from her Momma—right down to her dirty blonde hair that flowed across her shoulders in loose curls and her honey toned eyes— but that sour lemon pinched expression, that was her Daddy through and through.

“Go sit down next to your daughter.” Dean shoved his brother in the direction of the table, “But pour me a coffee before you do.”

“Dee, your supposed to say ‘please’ when you ask people to do stuff.” Meg scolded from her spot at the small round kitchen table. She didn’t even bother to look up from her colouring book.

“Yeah Dee, your supposed to say ‘please.’” Sam agreed, his mouth twitching up into a smug smile.

“Oh, fudge you Sam.”

Sam laughed, loud and boisterous. Then poured Dean a cup of coffee before handing it to him and walking over to join Meg at the table.

Dean took a sip of the warm liquid. Felt as it spread a pleasant heat down his throat. His body responded to the promise of caffeine with a burst of endorphins. Then he started getting Meg’s breakfast ready. He grabbed the small Scooby-doo bowl from the cabinet by his head and filled the bottom with cereal. He turned to the fridge, pulled the milk from the door and poured barely enough to cover the colourful loops.

Now, this was where the magic happened.

Dean put the bowl into the microwave and pressed the start button. After a couple of seconds, it beeped, and Dean took the bowl out. The fruit loops were puffed with milk. When Dean poked at them with a spoon, they were soft and spongey. Perfect. Dean picked up the milk again, then topped the cereal off with another cold splash.

He had started doing this when Meg was a baby and began to eat solids. Food had been tight one week and despite Fruit Loops not exactly making it onto the list of foods recommended by the paediatrician, Dean had been desperate enough to give it a go.

He had been so scared she’d choke on the things, that he had softened them in the microwave. Then he had panicked, thinking he might burn her with too hot cereal so he had topped it off with milk to try and cool it back down.

Anyway, Meg loved it and the whole thing had stuck around. It became the only way Dean ever made Meg’s cereal even long after she had mastered the art of chewing.

Dean put the bowl down in front of Meg, moving her colouring book and supplies off to the side.

“Juice or milk, Bub?” Dean asked, bending down to press a kiss into the crown of her head.

“Juice, please.” She answered, taking a heaping pile of mushy cereal onto her spoon.

“Good?”

Meg hummed out in an affirmative, stuck one pudgy thumb up in the air.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean turned his attention to Sam, “Eggs and toast?”

“We got any wholegrain or just white?”

“You’re the only one who eats it, so I’m sure it’s safe to say we still got it.”

“I’m not the only one who eats it! Meg does too.” Sam defended.

“Is that the one with the bird food in it?” She queried.

“Meg it’s not—”

“Yes. Yes, it is, Bub. It’s expensive bread with bird food in it.”

Sam glared, “It’s not _that_ expensive, Dean.”

Dean felt himself bristle at that. Not that expensive? The stupid stuff cost them almost 13 dollars for the same amount of white bread he got for 3. And it’s not like Sam was conservative in how much of the damn stuff he ate.

“Quit it with the stink-eye Sammy.” Dean snapped.

He felt bad when his brother’s expression fell from playful to guilty.

 _Shit._ Three hours really wasn’t enough after a demo to keep Dean from pushing his own crap onto somebody else.

“Sorry, Sammy. Guess Bub woke me up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Ignore me.” Dean offered him a signature mega-watt smile he certainly did not feel.

Sam returned it somewhat hesitantly.

“So, eggs and bird food toast?”

“Uh, yeah Dean. That’d be great. Thanks.”

Dean turned his attention back to breakfast and gathered the ingredients he needed.

“So, are you all set for the first day back tomorrow?” Dean asked, cracking eggs into the pan.

Sam groaned, “First day back makes it sound like I got a break at all this summer. Between the readings, study, and the summer programme I feel like I barely had time to hang out with you or Meg at all over the holidays.”

Sam had taken one of those summer job things law schools always push at one of the local firms over the summer. One of those small ones that tried to look modest but still oozed wealth, with expensive furniture that looked cheap and lawyers who walked around in suits that held designer names. Y’know, the ones that liked to say they specialised in saving the earth, or whatever.

Dean says ‘job’ but it’s not like the place paid him for it. _(“It’s the experience, Dean. Law firms look for that kind of stuff when you apply.”)_ But Sammy was right, he hadn’t got to see much of them with it piled on top of his summer studies. And things weren’t really going to get any better with his final year of law school starting up soon.

Dean couldn’t believe it.

Sam was going to graduate this year. Like, _fully_. Not just finishing up his undergrad—which Dean wasn’t dissing. He had cried the whole night after the ceremony, when the lights went out and he curled up in his bed, he had felt his breath come out a little easier for the first time in years.

Because it had been touch-and-go for a while; between Meg’s surprise addition to the equation and then Jess… Dean wasn’t sure Sam would make it through. And on the days he thought Sam might, he thought he mightn’t.

But they had.

And Sammy had gotten himself into law school. And now, he was about to graduate from the thing. Top of his class if he kept his work up.

This time next year, Sam will be a lawyer, Meg will be starting school and Dean…

Dean pushed the handle on the toaster down a little too sharply.

“Woah, Dean. Take it easy. What did our toaster ever do to you?” Sam asked.

“Sorry, hand slipped.”

Sam looked like he was going to comment.

Dean spoke first, “I assume the timetable hasn’t changed much this semester?”

“I start earlier Mondays and Wednesdays this time, which won’t mess with our schedule at all.”

Dean nodded in acknowledgment.

“And my final class on Tuesday and Friday—the one I had with the guy who always wore a bow tie—that’s gone. Thank God.”

“Oh, so you’ll be home earlier?” Dean asked and Meg’s head whipped up to look hopefully at her Dad.

“Probably not, no.” Sam’s brows pinched together in guilt, “I mean, it’s final year so I’ll need the extra time to study and do assignments.”

Meg’s shoulders slumped.

Dean felt kind of bad for getting the kid’s hopes up. God, he was in idiot for asking that in front of her.

Walking over to the table, Dean put a plate of eggs and toast down next to Sam. He took a seat next to his niece.

“Hey now,” he said wrapping his arm around her shoulders, “I’m going to start getting hurt feelin’s here with that sad look on your face at the news of having to spend your time with little old me.”

Meg turned to bury her face into the side of his chest, her little hands moving to ball up his shirt in her fists. “You’re not little, Dee. And I’m not mad about being with you. I just want Daddy to have fun with us too.”

Dean flicked his gaze over to his brother and saw how Sam’s heart broke at the muffled confession.

“Oh, Bub.” Dean started, pulling his niece over into his lap. She pushed her head into the crook of his neck. Dean felt as the cotton there began to dampen. He pulled her back to look at her and moved to wipe the few errant tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes.

“I bet your Daddy wishes he could have all the fun with us too. Right Sammy?” Dean looked to his brother.

Sam cleared his throat and threw his gaze quickly upward like he was holding back tears, “Course I do, baby. I get super jealous whenever you guys send me pictures showing me all the fun things you both get up to.”

“Then why can’t you just come back and play with us?” Meg asked, her little voice dripping in confusion.

“I’d love to but—but—”

Dean could see Sam was struggling. Struggling to keep his voice even, to explain to a kid that he was sacrificing the fun now so he could hopefully have the time and means to have even more in the future. Except, Meg didn’t care about the future. She cared about now.

She didn’t care if her Dad ever became a lawyer, she just cared about spending time with him.

Dean remembered both feelings incredibly well. He remembers just wanting his own Dad to be home and with them, instead of being off somewhere else. Remembers not understanding his Dad’s reasoning for having to leave all the time. (Though his Dad wasn’t exactly spending his hours working on a degree.) Remembers asking him to stay.

And he remembers trying to explain to Sammy that he couldn’t play legos, or cars, or tag right now because he had to do things like food shopping, or laundry, make dinner. He can recall the way his brother’s face scrunched up in incomprehension every time. How he wailed and cried, telling Dean he never had time to play with him. Asking why Dean didn’t like him anymore. It didn’t matter how many times Dean desperately tried to explain that he wished he could play with Sam, and of course he loved him, that’s why he had to do all this stuff. Sam never cared about Dean’s reasoning, just that Dean couldn’t play.

“Bub,” Dean started, pulling the attention back to him, “It’s like, you know when me or Daddy tell you you have to clean up your room before we can go to the playground or the pool?”

Meg snuffled, but nodded.

“You don’t really want to do it, right? But you gotta before we can have fun.”

Another nod.

“And if you don’t clean up your room, you get in trouble, right? And you’re not allowed go do the fun thing and in the end you still gotta clean the room.”

“Uh-huh. And you get that bad feelin’ in your tummy ‘cause you know you’re supposed to do it.”

Okay, well Dean wasn’t thrilled that she felt that but, “Yeah. You feel bad because you don’t get to have fun and you still gotta do all the work.”

“Well, that’s like Daddy and school.” He continued, “Your Daddy really wants to have fun with you. But before he can do that, he’s gotta make sure he gets all his work done. Otherwise, he’ll get in trouble with his teachers and he’ll still have to get his work done. That means he’d miss out on bedtime stories or your awesome daddy/daughter dates.”

“Oh…” Meg turned to face her Dad, “I don’t want you to hafta miss story time or our dates.” She said.

Sam smiled softly, “How about this then? I promise to keep getting all my work done like normal and that way I don’t have to miss out on any more fun?”

Meg bit her lip, considering the offer.

A pudgy hand shot forward, “Deal.”

Sam laughed in surprise then stuck his hand out to wrap around tiny fingers and shake.

“Hope you know you just made a deal with a demon Sam. She’s gonna hold you to that.” Dean joked.

“She can set the hounds on me if I ever miss a deadline.”

“Promise?” Meg asked.

“Promise.” He replied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing, Castiel Novak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Castiel's introduction took a *slightly* different direction than I anticipated and it took some wrangling to get it back to where I wanted. I think it still turned out okay, but I'd love to hear your feedback on it! 
> 
> Hopefully, the next chapter will be up a bit quicker.
> 
> Forewarning: this is not beta'd so all the mistakes are completely my own. Sorry!
> 
> (I may have updated this chapter...7 months later... Sorry.)

Castiel woke with a start to the sound of incessant beeping. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would do something to block out the noise. When it (unsurprisingly) did not, he huffed a harsh breath through his nose. He shot a hand out to blindly feel for his phone.

Aha! He felt as his fingers closed around cold metal. He tapped relentlessly across the bottom of the screen until the noise stopped. His eyes squinted against the bright backlight.

 **5:55 AM** , it read. Far too early for any human to be awake, and also the latest Castiel could wake up and still make it to the office on time.

 **5:57 AM.** He really had to move. God, he didn’t want to.

 **5:58 AM.** He’d give himself until 6, he bargained. That wouldn’t make a monumental difference. He’d just shower quicker.

He watched the numbers on his phone, as if staring at them might make the time progress slower.

It didn’t.

 **5:59 AM.** Castiel sighed, resigning himself to his fate. He would have to move.

 **6:00 AM.** Maybe he didn’t _need_ to shower.

**6:01 AM.**

**6:05 AM.** He could grab a pastry from the coffee cart guy for breakfast.

 **6:15 AM.** He could just have _one_ cup of coffee at the house, instead of the two and a half he usually managed.

**6:20 AM.**

**6:25 AM.**

**6:28 AM.** Fuck, he was going to be late.

***

“Nice of you to join us, Cassie. Hope your bedmate’s boss is as understanding.”

Castiel flipped off Gabriel as he passed him in the hallway. He would have vocalised it if he didn’t have a paper bag with a croissant in it wedged between his teeth. His shirt was barely tucked in and his suit jacket was draped over the arm that carried his coffee.

Gabriel laughed at the disgruntled response. Then he sauntered down the hallway, completely unencumbered.

Gabriel Milton. Castiel’s first cousin on his mother’s side. One of the few family members Castiel still spoke to, one of his closest friends, a gigantic pain in his ass and most recently, his business partner.

When Castiel finally made it into his office he spat the paper bag onto his desk. He hung his jacket onto the coat stand by his door, tucked in his shirt properly.

He took a deep inhale of the rich coffee in his hand, walked slowly toward the window that over-looked downtown. He watched passively as the people down below moved along the street. People here were much slower than he was used to. They all walked like they had time to spare. Castiel wasn’t sure if that was because he was now in a predominately college town, or if people in California truly were just more relaxed.

He glanced down at his watch, 7:17, not too bad.

Not as late as he expected.

Ten months ago, Castiel might have suffered a coronary if he had looked down to find that time on his watch when arriving to the office. First, he would’ve been much later than 17 minutes. Second, being late in itself was treated as a mortal sin.

His superiors certainly wouldn’t have found any humour in it, nor his co-workers. Castiel undoubtably would not have been amused if any of those who worked below him would’ve flouted the rules with such disregard.

Castiel had been somewhat of a stickler for them back then. Treated his team as though they were members of his own personal garrison. Took no mercy on those who stepped out of ranks.

Castiel had not always been a kind man.

He turned his back to the world and wandered over to his desk, slumping his body into the plush desk chair.

He sighed.

Castiel did not miss being fearsome. He liked that those who worked for him now smiled brightly at his arrival. How his team members approached him with little hesitance to ask him any manner of question—things he would’ve deemed frivolous in New York. Queries he would have berated them for asking, alluding to their curiosity or uncertainty as incompetence.

But he sometimes missed New York. Missed the somewhat chaotic nature of the beast. The pumping adrenaline it produced. The order he forced upon it. He missed the power he had felt there over those who fell outside his family.

There was something about that city that leant itself to the creation of false idols.

He missed how it was teeming with life in a way no other city could. How night proved only to be an extension of day, day an extension of night. How the earth thrummed beneath his feet with subway trains transporting souls around the boroughs like veins.

He missed the night life—the night clubs. The way pretentious and seedy seemed to mix together faultlessly.

“Hey-o, Bossman!”

**7:32 AM.**

He had wasted time on idle thoughts. His computer was still off. Drawers were still shut. He hadn’t opened a file or uncapped a pen. The world had not fallen apart in his indolence.

Sometimes, Castiel did not miss New York.

“Good morning, Charlie.”

Charlie Bradbury, 31-year-old tech-genius. Head of Castiel’s I.T. Department (a position far below her abilities.) and his oldest and best friend.

“How’s Dot doing?”

Dorothy ‘Dot’ Bradbury, Charlie’s wife and Castiel’s _second_ oldest friend. Currently 8 and a bit month’s pregnant with their first kid. Former member of the Airforce and the main reason Charlie chose to run an I.T. department and not a tech firm. She is also the reason they had set-up shop in California having settled here after service.

Charlie dropped her body into the seat across from Castiel.

She rolled her eyes, “Well, she’s heavily pregnant. So, she’s mostly uncomfortable and always in need of a toilet.”

Castiel winced in sympathy.

“She’s finishing up in the shop next week.” She continued, “Which, I think all the guys will probably be relieved about. She’s been on desk duty since her second trimester—ever since the doctor said she was too high-risk to keep lifting all the shit. And since then, she seems to have spent most of her time yelling at the guys" Charlie winced, "…and customers.”

Castiel laughed. He couldn't imagine Dot would take to desk work with any grace. Castiel had never seen the woman idle for more than a minute, nor had he ever seen her free from grease stains. Being tied to a desk for someone like Dot must have been akin to being sentenced to death by a thousand cuts. Or like asking Castiel to spend his days watching baseball. The only upside to that game was the uniforms, and Castiel has spent most of his youth trying to ignore that particular observation.

“Maybe getting to rest in her own space will do her some good?” Castiel suggested, "at least there she'd have Netflix."

“And what part of Dot's personality makes you think that?” Charlie asked incredulously. “Oh no Novak, Dot is going to discover any and all excuses to find herself either back in that shop, or in this office, until that baby is ready to get out of her.” She pointed a menacing finger at Castiel, "You mark my words."

Castiel was sure his face must have paled, “What do you think our odds of hiding during the timeframe she finds herself here?” 

“With or without her finding us?” Charlie asked, ominously. “It’s going to be a _looooonnngg_ few weeks my friend.” She pulled the steel ball back on his Newton’s cradle and started it in motion.

“I’m sure Dot has felt that way for quite some time.” Castiel countered.

“Which is why I am bitching to _you_ about it and not her.” She fired back.

Leaning back in the chair, Charlie looked at Castiel with big, wild eyes, “Bless the woman Novak. She is coping way better than I would in her situation. When we started this whole family planning thing, I told her I’d carry the second one. But after watching her go through it," she shivered, "I’m considering trying to convince her we should just have the one.”

Castiel chuckled kindly, “I’m sure you will forget all about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy when you get to hold your little one for the first time.”

Charlie’s face broke into a soft smile. “Yeah.” She agreed, wistfully.

“Plus, there is no way Dot will let you out of that deal.”

Charlie’s nose scrunched up tightly, “Ugh. I know.”

“Anyway, enough about me. What about you?”

“What about me?” Castiel asked, brow quirked.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t give me that, Novak. You know _exactly_ what I’m asking after! I want the goss. The Deets. The Full show-run.”

Castiel took a sip of his coffee.

“C’mon, Novak! You gotta give me details here I’m dying, man.” Charlie begged. “Me and Dot haven’t been able to go to any of the clubs since I got here." Charlie sighed, "Pregnancy hasn’t exactly made her feel all that sexy.”

"What?" Castiel exclaimed. “Dot is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen—especially glowing with pregnancy.”

“ _I_ know that!" Charlie stressed, but then seemed to get side-tracked, "And don’t say ‘glowing with pregnancy’. It’s weird. In fact, don’t say ‘you’re glowing’ ever to her. She’ll just start ranting about how ‘of course she’s glowing. She’s too damn hot all the time so she’s sweating like a pig.’ She usually follows that up by either angrily listing every _other_ side effect of pregnancy—of which there are tonnes—or by crying and talking about how ugly and uncomfortable she is. There is no in-between. It is one or the other. Every time.”

Castiel frowned, “That’s awful Charlie. Poor Dot... I didn’t realise she was having such a hard time with things."

"Maybe we could organise for a dinner the weekend after next?" He queried. It had been quiet some time since the trio had dined together. Long enough apparently that Castiel had missed seeing how difficult the pregnancy was for Dot. "We can just have it in my house, but maybe dress up for the occasion. Like we used to in New York?”

Charlie smiled brightly, “That’d be awesome Novak, she’d love that. I mean, the pregnancy’s not all bad, but it hasn’t done a lot for her confidence.” Charlie confessed. “She has never been that comfortable being seen as ‘too feminine’. And, let’s be honest here, there is traditionally no bigger sign of femininity than being pregnant. So, I think it’s kind of messing with her sense of—Damn it, Novak! I can’t believe you’re trying to avoid the question.”

Castiel looked away, with the decency to appear guilty, “I was initially." he admitted. "But I am sorry to hear that about Dot. I never thought about the fact that it might push at her perception of self.”

Charlie sighed, “Neither did we. Think it took us both a bit by surprise when she started feeling like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was somewhat morose.

Castiel broke it, “I went.”

“You did?” Charlie’s eyes grew wide and curious.

“I did.”

“And…?”

“It’s nice. Comfortable. Far more modest than the New York scene—not quite as much black leather and expensive accessories.”

“More, like Cain’s place, less like Balthazar’s?” She asked.

“Nobody’s is like Balth’s.” Castiel mused.

Charlie chuckled in kind. “No, I guess you’re right. I’ve never seen another club that had sculptures made out of various platinum plated sex toys.”

“Nor do I think you ever will.” He stated. “No, it was tamer than the name suggests.”

“Yeah, ‘Purgatory’, sounds like a place that’d blare Rihanna’s S&M, and would be lit solely by strobe lights.”

Castiel snickered, “That’s what I was expecting. I had been ready to walk in and walk back out again unhappy and $150 poorer. But I was gladly mistaken. It reminded me more of a speakeasy than a BDSM club.”

Castiel described the place to the best of his memory. “There was a stage along the back wall. Apparently, they do demonstrations there most nights, but I arrived and left too early to see one.” He explained.

“I asked one of the bar tenders if there were rooms in the back." Castiel felt a smile tugging on his lips, "I’ve never seen someone look so scandalised. He told me it ‘was a BDSM club—not a brothel.’”

“Definitely not like New York then.” Charlie mused.

Castiel laughed, “Definitely not.”

***

Charlie left his office soon after their conversation, promising to update him on Dot’s response to dinner. After that, Castiel finally set himself to doing some _actual_ work.

The day had then passed in sporadic interruptions: Their newest addition to the team, Alex, was having some issues with some particularly awkward wording in a document she needed. So, Castiel’s morning had been spent helping her decipher it.

Becky from reception had rushed into his office freaking out because she hadn’t remembered to order Castiel’s post-it notes in her last order to the office supplier. Castiel spent twenty minutes assuring her it was okay. He’d make do with what he had until they managed to get some in.

Gabriel had wanted to discuss their latest client’s options before their phone call later in the evening.

All-in-all it had been busy, but pleasant. It had kept his mind occupied. His day moving.

Now he was home, finally settled onto the back porch, hands wrapped around a warm cup of peppermint tea.

His house was elevated above the city, away from the noise, but still close enough to make the commute somewhat minimal. Despite being a relatively compact two bed, it had cost Castiel over the million mark. Property in this part of California didn’t come cheap. But it did come with a beautiful yard, which was far more than what he had owned in New York.

There, he had lived in one of those modern penthouse apartments a friend of his father had developed among one of the ever-changing neighbourhoods of Manhattan.

Castiel had been told it was spectacular, what with it’s high-shine cabinetry, steel appliances and clean lines. The floors had been herringboned oak; the walls exposed redbrick. It’s floor to ceiling windows gave him a fantastic view of other glass buildings that looked like his. Castiel had hated it. It had been so empty and impersonal. But his brothers and father had approved of it, told him it was ‘fitting’ for someone of his stature. Castiel had felt obliged to spend his savings on the place.

The only thing he had ever liked about the apartment was that the price he sold it for covered him buying this place.

He watched as the lights from around the city flickered behind the tree-lined boundary. They reminded him of the stars he had liked to gaze at when he was a child and visiting his grandparents in Montana.

They had been his mother’s parents. Both in their mid-seventies then. They had never left the state of Montana and rarely ever the border of Terry. They were wholesome and sweet, and the only people in Castiel’s life who had ever made him feel like it had been okay to _be_ a child; to play pretend and run in circles, wasting entire afternoons to it. To be himself, Castiel James: The boy who wanted to grow up and keep buzzing boxes of bees, spend his days writing all about how they worked together, and how they played a crucial role in our eco-system.

They had bought him books upon books about the tiny things. Taped endless documentaries on old VHS tapes. His grandfather had put a bee box on their property for Castiel to look after whenever he got to visit. They had been his refuge until he was thirteen. They had died within weeks of one and other, his grandfather of a massive stroke, his grandmother of a broken heart.

Castiel had worried he might have followed right after her.

His mother had wept for the loss of her parents. But Castiel had wept for the loss of himself, and of the only people who had truly seen him.

After that, Castiel had found himself swept up in the formidable force of his father, later joined by his brothers. Without an escape, he had fallen in line with their demands until he was nothing of himself. He had thrown away his books, taped up boxes that held mementos and shoved them into storage. He had smothered Castiel James beneath expectations and obligations. He had moulded himself into something strong and powerful, rich beyond imagination.

He had been desired, and fearfully worshiped. He had been utterly alone.

Castiel sighed, heavy and sad. He still mourned for the loss of his boyhood dreams, for the wasted sections of his life spent trying to please an unpleasable father, for how his life had wandered so far away from the path that led him to wild flower fields and humming white boxes.

Perhaps Castiel could get some bee hives for here? His garden was big enough, with a mixture of flowers and vegetables planted throughout. He could put them down by the trees, away from the house and the porch so that they wouldn’t bother one and other.

He would look into it this weekend. Surely there would be somewhere close-by that would help him set it up, he thought. You could find a start-up for just about anything here. It couldn’t take more than a morning to find what he needed to do.

It wasn’t as though he had much else planned for the days. Castiel was still not used to having weekends free, nor the absence of friends or acquaintances to fill empty hours with.

Maybe he would visit Purgatory again…

He was sad he had missed the demonstration. But it had really only been a cursory visit. His friend Balthazar had been the one to suggest it, having met the owner through the club scene some years ago. He had assured Castiel of Purgatory’s stellar reputation, but Balthazar also was known for his more…garish tastes, so Castiel had been wary.

As a result, he had withheld from purchasing a membership. Hence, the outrageous entry fee he had paid on Saturday.

Even without having witnessed the selling-point of the demonstration, Castiel could see the club’s appeal.

The place had been beautifully decorated in rich oak panelling and plush burgundy carpet that gave slightly as you walked on it—perfect for those who might be kneeling. There had been booths along the left wall that were separated by ornate stained glass, which offered some privacy while still allowing staff to keep a watchful eye. The rest of the room had been filled with a mixture of high tables and stools, or low tables with bucket seats and benches.

The stage, when not in use, was open for public play. It held a St. Andrew’s Cross to the left, and the right had rigging for suspension bondage. Castiel had watched as staff meticulously cleaned and disinfected the equipment between use.

The bar had run along the back of the club. The wall behind it was decorated with shallow shelves housing variously shaped glass bottles of expensive spirits and liqueurs. The bartenders moved quickly and confidently. They had marked the back of people’s hands with a thick, black, diagonal line after they consumed alcohol, symbolising they were unable to participate in active play— though, Castiel had seen members with marks kneeling or playing lightly with their subs without consequence. Should either party then have a second drink, they were marked again to create a bold X, cutting them off from any further service of alcohol.

It seemed to Castiel as though everyone adhered happily to the house rules.

However, from what Balthazar told Castiel of the club’s owner, Crowley, it was not difficult to imagine why. Balthazar had warned him that Crowley did not suffer fools kindly and that he tolerated rule breakers even less. He had garnered a reputation of cutting down even the most privileged and powerful of patrons with extreme ease and little consequence to himself. Given his profession, it was something Castiel could admire.

Castiel hadn’t got to meet the man when he had visited the club, but he would this weekend if he was to buy a membership. Crowley apparently did all the applications in-person in order to weed out the less ' _desirables'_. Castiel was certainly curious to meet the man behind the curtain.

Yes, perhaps that’s what Castiel would do this weekend. Purchase a beehive in the morning, and a membership to Purgatory at night.

He snorted a laugh into his tea. His nostrils burned with the minty blowback.

Sometimes Castiel was amused with the facets of his new life here in California. New York had held prestige and parties. California, it seemed, held beehives and bondage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you all. I actually had quite a lot of fun writing this one, despite the angsty nature of it in parts, so I hope you all enjoy it too!
> 
> I thought some chapter warnings might be useful, so I've included them in the notes at the end of the chapter for those who might like them. I also thought it worth noting since we are entering the more D/S aspects in this chapter, please do not take any of this as a guideline for D/S relationships. Though I try to remain true to the core elements of Safe, Sane & Consensual, this is still fiction first and foremost, not a roadmap. There are plenty of nice resources out there that'll help those looking at it seriously. That being said, I try to have the characters emilite healthier aspects found in fanfic and hopefully that comes through.
> 
> As always, this isn't beta'd so all mistakes are my own.

Dean has never been more relieved to see the inside of Purgatory in his life.

Walking through the side door and into the employee locker room at the back of the building, Dean threw his bag into his locker before crashing down to the bench between aisles. He dropped his head into his hands, closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

God, he loved Meg with all his heart, but today had been a fricken’ disaster.

They had had a pretty stellar day yesterday—they went to the park, played on some swings, got ice-cream. Before dinner, Sam had taken Meg to the pool so Dean could start on the food, and to give the two of them some one-on-one time.

It also had given Dean a chance to stow some of the shit that had been building behind the scenes all day. (Turns out 3 hours sleep after a seventeen-hour work day and scene was a guaranteed way to experience subdrop. Who’d’ve thunk?) He had pulled out his mom’s old cookbook and decided on lasagne. By this point, Dean knew the whole recipe by heart, but there was something soothing about reading the instructions and following them step-by-step.

Then they had spent the evening preparing his niece for a return to normal. Back to a routine where her day consisted of hanging out with Dean and not seeing Daddy until dinner time.

She had seemed pretty cool with the whole thing.

She had happily parroted back all the reasons _why_ Daddy had to go back to school. Accepted that they couldn’t facetime him. Or drop by for lunch-dates. Or have days where he got off early and they could go to the zoo. Meg had gone to bed completely on-board with the plan. Even Dean had started to feel like he was getting a grip on more solid ground.

…until this morning.

This morning, Meg had cried bloody murder at breakfast when Sam started to pack his bag for college. Big fat tears had rolled down blotchy red cheeks, while tiny arms strained out to try and cling onto Sam’s shirt.

_“I don’t want stupid Dee. I want Daddy!”_

_“Meg. That’s not nice, you can’t call Dee stupid. You’ll hurt his feelings!”_

_“I don’t c-c-caaarre. I d-don’t w-wa-want, Dee. I w-w-ant, y-y-you.”_

_“Bub—”_

_“No! No, no, no, noooooo! Dee, st-stop! I don’t w-wa-want you. I d-d-don’t want you. I don’t want you. I don’t WANT YOU!”_

And, didn’t that hurt like a bitch to hear.

Rationally, of course, Dean knew that Meg didn’t mean it. She was just being a cranky four-year-old. She had expressed more times than not, how much she loved Dean and wanted him with her. But damn it, it had opened back up the floodgates he had tried so hard to close the night before.

Dean had eventually gotten Sammy out the door on time, but Meg’s mood had just gotten worse as the day wore on. After screaming and kicking at Dean until he put her down, she had proceeded to bang on the front door demanding exit to find her Dad.

That had carried on for about 45 minutes until her hands hurt. Then she turned her attention back to Dean.

She had restarted her chorus of how much she didn’t want Dean and how mean he was for not letting her go with Sam. She even threw in that she didn’t love him anymore after he tried to comfort her by saying that _he_ was excited to spend his day with the person he loved most.

Dean stopped trying to placate her after that.

Eventually, Meg just stopped talking to him. She played with her toys, ate her lunch in front of the T.V. watching episodes of Paw Patrol (which, wasn’t allowed but Dean was too tired to correct her.) And Dean had spiralled.

He had tried to focus on other things-- like sorting through Meg’s little bookshelf, putting some of the ones outside of her age group into a box to bring to the thrift shop at some point, and then organising the ones left by their level of difficulty: The ones closest to Meg’s eye-level being the easiest, the ones she’d need help getting down being the ones she’d need assistance reading. That made the most sense to Dean. _That_ was logical.

After that, he had started cleaning, scrubbing the bathroom until the small space was noxious with a chemical lemon smell.

In the kitchen, he had taken to the grout between the subway tiles by the cooker with a toothbrush to rid it of grease and fat. He had scoured the floor tiles with such vigour that he felt as his skin had burned and stung as chemicals made their way across chapped skin. He had fought against the burning pressure behind his eyes more than once while he had prepped dinner and got it in the oven.

Meg seemed to have thawed somewhat by the time Dean got to setting everything on the table, updating him on the latest adventures of AJ and his monster-truck, Blaze. (They’d really make a kids show about anything, huh?) Dean had tried his best to smile and prompt her in all the right places, but he mostly felt miserable.

When Sam arrived home, it was to adoring fanfare from Meg.

Sam had happily listened to Meg’s retelling of her enthralling day sat in front of the T.V. When Sam had asked her if they had done anything else, the little girl had said no, but Dean had been busy spending the day cleaning. Which, in turn, made Dean feel like _more_ of a fucking failure. What kind of self-respecting adult just lets a kid watch T.V. all day because they can’t get their shit together after a four-year-old has a temper tantrum?

Dean had tried to shrug off the comment when Sam looked his way, but something must have tipped him off about how utterly woeful Dean was because instead of a sly jab, Sam asked Dean if he was alright.

Dean’s pretty sure he replied with something witty, but he couldn’t be certain. He had slinked away pretty quickly into the kitchen then under the guise of plating food.

He thinks Meg might have picked up on just how sad the whole day had gotten for Dean after that, because her little teeth worried at her mouth throughout dinner and her big eyes kept frantically finding his, even with the long-awaited return of her Daddy.

And how fricken’ pathetic is that? Forcing a four-year-old to feel nervous about hurting a grown man’s feelings. It wasn’t the kid’s fault he’s so messed up he couldn’t cope with his niece not liking him for 5 god-damn minutes.

Jesus! Was he _that_ fucking needy?

She had hugged him extra tight before Sam took her off to have a bath before bed. He had kissed her cheek and told her he loved her. She had kissed him back. But he still felt like crap.

Then, fearing Sam would want to _talk_ if Dean was still there when he finished up Bub’s bedtime routine, and unable to find sleep for his usual nap before work, Dean hauled ass.

Ran like a spineless coward to Baby and drove to Purgatory a whole hour and fifteen before he was due to start.

Fuck. He was so useless. How sad was he? Driven to the fucking edge by a four-year-old. Couldn’t even hold himself together long enough to properly take care of his own niece. His only job for the day was to watch after her, to make sure she was okay and stimulated and learning and safe and Dean hadn’t done _any_ of those things today! Why? Because she said she wanted her Dad and not him? Of course she did! She’s a kid. That’s what they want. They want their parents. Not their dead-beat uncles who weren’t even smart enough to finish high school. No wonder she didn’t want Dean around. She's probably out-grown his fuckin’ IQ level at this point. She was as smart as a whip.

Was that even that saying? Smart as a whip? Sharp as a tack, maybe? God, Dean wasn’t even smart enough to get that right. He was—

“Dean?”

Benny? What was Benny—oh, yeah. Dean was in Purgatory.

Great, so now he couldn’t even keep track of where _he_ was. What’s next? Meg? Sammy would kill him. And he’d have every right to.

Dean isn’t good enough to take care of anyone. He couldn’t even take care of himself. Sammy had been a fluke. He was such a bright kid; he had basically raised himself.

Dean pulled sharply at the hair trapped between his fingers until he felt a grounding burn along his roots.

“Woah. Woah, cher.” Dean felt as the bench dipped with Benny’s weight. Felt as large, hot hands, covered his own and gently prised his fingers from his head.

“ ‘Nough of that now, cher. No need to be hurtin’ yourself.”

Dean felt his breath stutter in his chest.

“Come now, what’s got you all riled into a tizzy? You were plenty fine last I saw you.”

Benny’s fingers grasped lightly at Dean’s chin and tipped his head toward him.

His outline was blurry. Nothing about Benny followed his usual smooth lines—everything was distorted.

“Benny?” Dean’s voice quivered, and Benny blurred further.

“Oh, cher.” Benny sounded sad. His navy blue eyes were clouded with worry.

Dean realised he had caused that too. Dean had been around Benny for less than a minute and he had already made the man unhappy.

That was when he broke.

His body shivered against impulse. Then Dean burst into tears.

Big arms moved to scoop Dean up between them. Dean pressed himself tightly against Benny’s form.

“I-I’mm sorry, Benny. I’mm so pa-pathetic.”

“Hey now, none of that.” Benny rebuked sternly.

Dean shrunk further in on himself at the tone.

His mind was so confused; caught somewhere between regular Dean, his subdrop and his submissive headspace.

The Dean portion of him was telling him that this whole thing was ridiculous. Telling him to calm the hell down and just _explain_ to Benny that he was feeling low because of a drop that was exasperated by a bad day. That’s all. Nothing too life altering, just shitty timing. Completely fixable.

The subdrop portion was screaming at him all the things he did wrong. All the reasons he was rotten, and useless, and pitiful. That is if you’d even consider him worth pitying. (It didn’t.) It was telling him that he was justified in feeling all these things, not because of an endorphin drop mixed with a bad day, but because Dean himself was bad. And bad people deserved bad things to happen to them and to have bad feelings and thoughts. It told him that it _wasn’t_ something he could fix because Dean was too broken to be fixed.

His submissive headspace was begging him to just hand everything over to Benny and have him put it all back together. To fix everything—to fix _Dean_. Benny would tell him what to do to make it all better. Benny knew how to control Dean’s wayward thoughts and put them right again. Benny would help him.

In the end it seemed to be a mixture of the first and final voice that won out.

“D-dropping p-pretty hard.” Dean managed between gritted teeth. “You gotta help-p me out, Benny. P-please.”

Benny hushed him gently and then shifted them so Benny straddled the bench and Dean could wrap himself tightly around the other man, shove his face firmly against his neck.

Somewhere in Dean’s mind he was pretty sure he’d be mortified if someone walked in and saw him essentially koala bear hugging Benny. But that part of Dean’s mind was currently not invited to the party.

Dean continued to cry. Heaving sobs that originated deep within his chest.

Benny ran his hand firmly up and down Dean’s back, whispering soft praises against Dean’s rebuttals.

“You’re a good man, Dean.”

“N-no, I’m really not. I’m too dumb for e-even a a four-y-y-ear-old to find me interesting e-enough to k-eep around.”

“That’s not true cher, that little girl loves you. You’re plenty smart. So, I don’t know where you are getting that idea from.”

“Y-you ju-ust have to say that because I’m-m a n-n-eedy m-mess. I’m no good. I’mma sh-shitty uncle and a sh-shitty b-brother. An-nd a fuckin’ f-failure of a s-s-sub.”

Dean felt a hand clamp down on the back of his neck, cutting off Dean’s list of failures long before he had run out of items.

“I think we’ve had enough of you talkin’ back cher. What’d you think?”

Benny was giving him an option here—no a lifeline—and there was no way Dean wasn’t going to grasp that motherfucker with both hands.

“G-green.”

Benny gave another tight squeeze to the back of Dean’s neck and Dean melted against him, the tension bleeding out of him in a sudden and freeing exhale.

“Such a good boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Ah ah aah.” Benny interrupted, “No more talkin’ back from you darlin’. Understood?”

Dean wanted to argue back. But that wouldn’t be good. And Dean _wanted_ to be good.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. So good. And such a smart boy, too.”

Dean let out a noise of disbelief. Benny pinched his side for his trouble.

“Ow.”

“Hush-up now. I was busy complimenting a _good_ boy. You want to be a good boy for me Dean, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you best let me explain to you all the ways you can _be_ a good boy.”

Dean remained silent—which was apparently the right thing to do. Benny’s hand started to move across his back again, this time under his shirt. Dean pushed his spine back into the caress, felt the pressure of Benny’s hand increase, pressing him flat against his body again.

“Look at you, cher. So good already and we only started. So good at following my orders. Take a nice ol’ breath for me cher.” Benny’s hand moved around to cup at Dean’s ribcage, bringing his attention to how his breathing deepened on each inhale.

“Good boy.” Benny praised. Dean’s tears slowed, escaping only briefly now in relief at hearing Benny’s accolades.

Dean could be good. He could listen to Benny and Benny would make him good.

“So good.” He rubbed his back again, “Such a smart boy.”

Dean tensed. He might be good, but he definitely wasn’t smart.

“None of that now cher. Relax again for me.” Benny pressed firmly at the dip of Dean’s spine until it caved back in. “I get to make the decisions here. Right, cher?”

Dean nodded.

“Words, cher.”

“Yes, sir. You get to make the decisions.”

“That’s right. And you trust me to make the right ones.”

It wasn’t a question but Dean answered anyway, “Yes, sir.”

“So that means, you gotta trust me when I tell you: you’re smart.” Benny resumed his strokes. “You were smart enough to know you were hurtin’ and needin’ help. Smart enough to realise that what you were feelin’ was a drop. Smart enough to stave it off until you could come here. Smart enough to ask for help. Smart enough to accept it.” Benny kept petting along Dean’s back. Dean kept silently crying against his shoulder. “There are a million ways to be smart. Just like there are a million ways to be _good_. And you are cher, so smart and so good.”

They sat like that for a while longer; Benny gently caressing Dean and murmuring softly to him. Eventually Dean’s tears slowed. Then stopped altogether. He became more conscious of the things around him, of the buzzing noise emanating from the front-of-house. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the door to the locker room opening and closing, though no one ventured toward them. He started to notice the numb feeling in his butt from the awkward position against the hard wood bench.

“You comin’ back around, cher?”

Dean didn’t feel like talking, enjoying the floating feeling of surrender, but he nodded against Benny’s shoulder.

Benny moved his hand from beneath Dean’s t-shirt. Dean let out a noise of complaint from the back of his throat.

Benny chuckled, clasped his hand around the back of Dean’s neck and tugged him back so they were face to face. “I know you don’t feel much like comin’ up fully yet, cher. But we only got half an hour left before we gotta start workin’ and I can’t very well send you out there half under. So, how about we go have a nice shower and when we get out, you come on back fully? How’s that sound?”

Dean just stared at Benny’s face for a while longer, he could feel as his eyes darted around the man’s features, settling on the warm eyes crinkled in a smile. His brain was sluggish in digesting and comprehending the words but they did eventually.

Dean nodded.

“Nu-uh, cher. Lemme hear that pretty voice o’ yours.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the dom because they both knew if Dean talked now, he’d push himself closer to the surface. But if Dean didn’t answer verbally, he wouldn’t be being a good boy and all Dean wanted was to be good.

Benny was playing dirty.

Benny let out a booming laugh, “Oh c’mon now, cher. Don’t start pouting at me now.”

Dean pouted harder and shook his head. Moving to bury it back into Benny’s neck. Benny’s hand clamped down harder and pinned him in place.

“ _Dean_ …” Benny warned.

Dean stayed silent for a beat, then broke. “Yes, sir. A shower sounds good.”

“Good boy. Up and at ‘em.”

Benny detangled them from each other. When Dean stood it was to shake pins and needles as his feet flooded with blood again. They undressed quickly, then headed toward the showers.

***

Benny had carefully washed Dean in the shower and slowly coaxed him back into himself fully. By the time Dean had towel dried his hair and slipped into his uniform he felt the most like himself he had since Saturday.

“Feelin’ better brotha?” Benny asked, tucking his shirt into his pants.

“Much.” Dean sighed. “Thanks, Ben.”

“No need to be thankin’ me. I’m just sorry I couldn’t have stepped in earlier. I really wish you’d let me extend that aftercare Dean. It’s not right just sendin’ you off after those demonstrations.” Benny complained, and not for the first time since they started demoing all those years ago.

“I know Benny. But we can’t. It’s not like I can go back to yours, not with me needing to be home. And it’s definitely not like you could crash at mine. For God’s sake I don’t even have a door to my so-called room. Not exactly a good mix for aftercare with a four-year-old running free reign. Not to mention, it’d be no use for _both_ of us to get no sleep once Meg decides to wake up… It’s just not possible.” Dean pulled at his work collar.

God, he hated this thing. It was made from stiff leather that never seemed to soften. But, any of the subs who worked here wore them. It marked them as on the clock and off limits to playing with visiting doms, while also allowing subs in the club to know there were members of staff on-call who were safely on their side.

It was a nice touch. Important.

Lord knows Dean had been to clubs before (seedy ones, sure) where he wished he knew what members of staff he could’ve approached comfortably when he was in his own headspace. Especially when whatever dom he had picked up for the night turned out to be a dick.

Dean didn’t mind wearing a collar if it gave other subs a sense of safety. He just wished they didn’t have to be so shitty.

“I know brotha, it’s just a raw deal is all.”

“Don’t I know it Benny. But honestly, it doesn’t usually get that bad. Meg was just about as easy to handle today as a bear on roller blades, and things just kinda spiralled from there.”

Benny laughed, “Little Miss really is a firecracker, huh?”

“A demon dressed up as a princess our Meg.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Benny said. “Lord help any future boyfriends or girlfriends that girl might bring home.” He joked, “Ain’t nobody goin’ to be scared of meetin’ her Daddy and Uncle if they survived her long enough for an introduction.”

Dean laughed, deep and sharp. “Oh no, our Meg will certainly need no help from us to weed out the losers.”

There was a sudden shout from the doorway of the room, “Mr. Benny?”

“Back here, Alf.” Dean called back.

They heard the door swinging shut and the sound of shuffling steps.

“Oh! Dean! I actually need to talk to you.”

“Oh c’mon Alf, that only ever means one thi—”

“I know, Dean but I could really use the bail out. I promise I won’t ask again for another… another… SIX months.”

“You said that to me last time Alfie and that was a _month_ ago!”

Alfie shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands together nervously. “I know Dean… But—”

Benny interrupted, “Sorry to cut across Angel, but were you hollerin’ for me out of any particular need?”

Alfie blushed, “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Crowley wanted to talk to you. He’s in his office.”

“No problem. I’ll see you out there brotha.” Benny clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he walked by. He paused in front of Alfie.

Alfie looked down. Benny reached out a hand to tip his face back up toward his own.

It was no secret that Alfie’s crush on Benny was a mile wide. And Dean was almost certain that Benny felt one right back, though as far as Dean knew neither of them had acted on it yet.

“Angel, you manage to convince this boy to take on another of your demonstrations, I don’t wanna hear you askin’ him again for six months. If he is holdin’ up his end of the bargain, you best be holdin’ up yours. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Came Alfie’s demur response. Benny held his chin for a few moments longer until Alfie looked back at him.

“Good.” Then he walked out of the room.

Huh… maybe they _had_ finally acted on it. Dean would have to interrogate Benny on that at some point tonight.

The silence stretched between Dean and Alfie as Alfie collected himself from the short interaction with Benny.

It didn’t take long, and Alfie was quick to jump back into his request. “So, can you do it?”

“What day and who’s it with?”

“Friday.”

Friday wasn’t the worst. Yeah, Dean worked double on the Saturday, but the morning was in Singer’s and having such a manual job usually kept his mind busy and away from a drop. He could work with that.

Plus, Friday demos were good gigs. Paid better than the weekday ones because there was a bigger pull.

The only issue was… “Who’s it with, Alfie?”

Alfie stayed silent.

“ _Alfie_.”

“Jo.”

Dean groaned.

“I know it’s not your favourite—”

“Dude, it’s so awkward!”

Jo was a good dom. Okay, maybe a little more on the strict side than Dean particularly liked, but not overly so. Dean just liked to play the brat from time to time. Yeah, Dean like to be good but he also liked to know that the dom he was with could take him in hand, _show_ Dean how to be good.

Jo was not a fan.

No, the issue with Jo wasn’t that per say.

The issue with Jo was the fact that she was Bobby Singer’s step-daughter. Her mom owned the bar Dean went to in his spare time, the place he went for dinners to with his family. Dean saw Jo on a frequent and casual basis and she knew what he looked like torn apart to his most basic components. Knew what he looked like with a gag between his teeth and his arms tied behind his back. She knew what he looked like begging and desperate. With tears streaming down his face and trying his best to be good. And it’s not like any of this was predicated on a romantic, or even overtly sexual, relationship. Jo and Dean had only ever scened together in demos for the club, and never as anything more than a last resort.

Jo was one of Dean’s best friends. He loved her and she loved him, but it was fucking weird. They just didn’t click like that. And despite the fact that neither of them ever brought up their demos outside of the club… they both knew that they had happened, and it was hard to look each other in the eye for the first few times they met afterwards.

“I know, Dean! I’m sorry but no one else can take it. Lisa’s sister is in town for the weekend. Anael and Jo still aren’t talking after the summer barbeque incident. Nick is too much of a brat for Jo to work with, and Gadreel can’t work on Fridays.”

“And why is it you can’t do it all of a sudden?”

They both knew Dean was going to do it, but he still wanted to complain.

“You remember that professor of mine that came in here before?”

“Oh ew, yeah the balding creeper? What about him?”

“Yeah. Zachariah. Well, he decided to change my group’s presentation to Saturday morning—first thing. And I can’t exactly risk a drop on the same day of my biggest test so… I’m desperate.”

“Guess he didn’t take the whole blacklist thing too well, huh?”

Alfie laughed, “No. Not particularly. Thankfully moving my group project timeline to fuck with me is the worst he can do and get away with so… some graces, I guess.”

“I guess, kid.”

“…So? Will you do it?”

“I’ll do it. But I want six months this time Alfie, for real.”

“I think Benny’d have my hide if I didn’t deliver this time.”

Dean opened his mouth for a witty retort but was cut off before he could.

“I’ll have _both_ your hides if you’re not out here in two.”

“Give us five!” Dean called back.

“Don’t go pushin’ cher.” Benny warned, but Dean could hear the amusement behind it.

Dean laughed and grabbed hold of a giggling Alfie, “Alright, you grumpy ol’ bear. We’ll be out in a few!”

“10…9…8…7….”

Dean laughed even harder as a wide-eyed Alfie scrambled to get them both moving and toward a counting Benny.

Dean might work hard, but it didn’t always mean he didn’t enjoy the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> \- Negative self-talk  
> \- Subdrop  
> \- Very slight reference to self-harm (I promise it is nothing of magnitude-- some hair-pulling on Dean's part.) 
> 
> If I missed out on anything worth noting, please let me know and I'll update them. :)


End file.
